To say that I walked the Abyss is wrong.
It does not accurately reflect the experience,
because I did not walk.
I could not tell you when I found myself
in that lightless chasm.
I could not tell you when verdant woods and
songs of birds collapsed
into the deep tar and low thrum
To which I grew numb.
I did not walk in the Abyss.
I was atomised. Pulled apart into tiny flecks
of myself. I could not discern where the Abyss
met my flesh or
I fell out of all time and space, held static by
imperceptible strands of black
and through me.
I drifted in the viscous ebb and flow of this breathing onyx sea,
while ages and aeons passed in the world above the pit.
Until, perhaps by chance,
the nebulous cloud I had become
reached something impermeable;
like a wall.
Fighting against the
and avaricious tendrils
of this great maw,
my arms forming
And I climbed again.
On and on.
With every new grip,
every new permutation,
the mouth of the Abyss grew ever nearer;
Light seeping through its teeth;
And the distant echoes of bird songs rising to crescendo.
Severin Lai is a poet and writer from Elora, Ontario, Canada. He writes pieces inspired by the likes of Hunter S. Thompson and Ernest Hemingway, delving into topics from depression and hedonism to spirituality and splendor. Previously published in The Raven’s Perch, his other works are showcased on Instagram @Chimeric_Creations.